


John Uses Emoticons and Mycroft is Consumed With Lust

by Sheepnamedpig



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea is laughing, Dildos, Emoticons, Established Relationship, John is devious, M/M, Mycroft is gullible, POV Second Person, Sexting, for the lols, meetings are held
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:12:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheepnamedpig/pseuds/Sheepnamedpig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wraps his arms around you, cupping the cheeks of your incredibly sore arse with the gentlest of hands. And then, because he is a complete bastard and because you are an easy target, he smirks and coos, “Poor baby.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Uses Emoticons and Mycroft is Consumed With Lust

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: John fucks Mycroft so hard and so thoroughly that Mycroft can't sit at all. It's a shame then, that Mycroft has meetings scheduled from morning until evening the next day. And John won't stop leaving sexts on his mobile, either... 
> 
> Unbeta'd

Your alarm is going and your bum hurts like nobody's business.

_Damn you, John Watson_ , you think,  _damn you for being a bloody amazing shag._

You shuffle over to your alarm on your belly, glad that rotten bastard isn't here to watch you make a fool of yourself, and slap at it until it shuts up. Clutching the small of your back, you stare at the edge of the bed and contemplate the logistics of actually standing up. In the end, you swing one leg off the edge and lever yourself up, bare arse screaming in pain all the way.

It hurts less once you're upright, and when you step into the bathroom, you fish the paracetamol out of the medicine cupboard and immediately down two tablets. By the time you've finished with a hot shower, you feel almost normal again.

In fact, you're feeling so well that you don't think before bending over to put on your pants.

It is not a mistake you will be making again.

You manage to get yourself mostly sorted, pushing past the pain to get your pants and trousers up, but you draw the line at socks. If John wants to roger you into crippling back pain, he can damn well put your socks on for you.

There's coffee on by the time you shuffle into the kitchen, the tiles cold under your bare feet. John spies you out of the corner of his eye and comes at you with a mug prepared exactly the way you like it.

“Morning, love,” he chirps, pecking you on the cheek while you suck down a mouthful of that heavenly caffeinated manna. _Fuck off_ , you think.

“Fuck off,” you grunt after a few long pulls of the sweet, milky coffee.

John makes a face like a clinically depressed basset hound and you fend off guilt like a drowning man fends off water. You make a face that might on another person be called a grouchy pout and grumble, “My back hurts.”

He wraps his arms around you, cupping the cheeks of your incredibly sore arse with the gentlest of hands. And then, because he is a complete bastard and because you are an easy target, he smirks and coos, “Poor baby.”

You plant your free hand on his face and shove him away, wishing you could stomp off in a huff without limping in pain. John just laughs his merry little head off. When he calms down, which he eventually does, he wraps his arms back around you and gently massages the muscles in your lumbar region. You let him, mostly because you let him do pretty much anything, and also because you can set your mug on top of his head and still sip from it.

By the time you finish your coffee, you're feeling much more human.

“Did you take some paracetamol?” John asks quietly, fingers rubbing circles against the knotted muscles flanking your lumbar curve. You grunt in the affirmative.

“Good,” he says. “I'll put the bottle in your briefcase. You'll probably be needing them. And when you're ready to go, I'll help you with your socks and shoes.”

You hum and press your nose against his short fringe. He tips his head up and rolls up onto his toes so you don't have to bend too far to kiss him. There's still a little bit of smirk in his smile, but you ignore it.

When you slide gingerly into the car, your PA gives you a look that is seventy percent amusement, ten percent sympathy, sixteen percent oh-my-god-I'm-going-to-bust-my-gut-laughing, and four percent shit-can't-laugh-or-he'll-fire-me. You glare at her and she turns her face away, covering her shit-eating grin with a manicured hand.

“How many meetings do I have?” you demand imperiously, fighting the urge to squirm in your seat.

“Lots,” she squeaks from behind her palm.

You pluck her blackberry out from between loosely grasping fingers and check your schedule. True enough, you're booked the whole day through with back-to-back meetings. You think of the bottle of paracetamol that John had so graciously slipped in amongst your files and the smug smirk he'd never quite managed to hide and realization dawns like a slap to the face. Next to you, your little snake of a PA gigglesnorts behind the two hands clapped over her mouth.

&&&

Your phone buzzes with a text sometime midmorning. Someone is blithering on about something you don't give two shits about, so you pull out your phone to read it.

_How are you holding up? :) -JW_

You sneer. In the background, Blithering Someone's voice quavers, but there really is no number, real or imaginary, that can accurately quantify the number of fucks you are currently failing to give.

_Fuck off._ _I loathe you. -MH_

_Aw, I love you too, honey. ;) -JW_

You refuse to dignify your twat of a boyfriend with an answer. An hour later, a meeting later, you get another text, which you read immediately because you are clearly a masochist.

_Miss you, love. -JW_

_You are not forgiven. -MH_

_What if I laid you down on your belly and rimmed you until you almost came? And then put a cock ring on you and rode you until you started screaming my name? - JW_

You imagine it and immediately regret imagining it. You are going to draw and quarter him. Or worse, fuck him until he can't walk and give him hickeys all up and down his throat and nape before sending him over to Baker Street for Sherlock to harass.

He sends you another text half an hour later during an unscheduled break between meetings. They've been running unusually short this morning, thank God.

_Or maybe I'll just lay you down and suck your cock for an hour. ;P -JW_

_Or maybe I'll just shove a vibrator up your smart arse, tie you up, and leave you there. -MH_

_As long as you stay and watch, darling. -JW_

You smile at that and immediately regret smiling. You're supposed to be furious. Yes, very furious. A veritable tower of infuriated fury.

Your PA has to bring you lunch since you literally can't get it yourself. She pinches her lips between her teeth the whole time, doing her best to answer your questions with nods and shakes of her head. When you threaten to fire her, she snorts.

You really get no respect these days. No respect at all. You wish you could call Mummy for some sympathy, but she'd probably just laugh at you.

_The bed smells like you. -JW_

You don't reply. The sexts keep coming in fairly regular intervals.

_There's a stain on the sheets from your come. -JW_

_You're so hot around my cock. Sexy, too. Love to hear your voice. -JW_

_Christ, I'm so hard just thinking about you. Haven't even touched myself yet. -JW_

_Love it when you touch my cock. Your fingers are so soft. -JW_

_Nobody's ever fucked me like you do. Nobody's ever made me want it so bad. -JW_

_We should definitely see if I can come on your cock alone. No hands. Lets do that 2nite_

_hate this blody stupid dildo want your cock in me wantyou on me_

There's a lengthy gap between texts. You look up from checking your mobile and haven't the slightest bloody idea what this meeting was supposed to be about. Someone asks for your input regarding something. You wave a hand and promise to get back to them on that, but honestly, you care so little you could divide it by zero and the quotient would be a whole number.

John's next sext comes almost an hour after the previous. Meanwhile, your imagination runs away with you like it's trying to break a land speed record. Eventually:

_Well, can't come on just the dildo alone. Maybe if we made a dildo replica of your cock? Christ, I'd probably never get out of bed. :) -JW_

_Would you like that? Me in your bed all day, your cock up my arse? -JW_

_And when you got home, I'd be stretched and ready and wanting you badly enough to beg. -JW_

_And I'd beg. I'd get on my hands and knees and wave my wide open arse at you and beg you to come fuck me and make me come. -JW_

_You love it when I beg. You get so hot for me. Love it. -JW_

_Do you want me to beg? -JW_

_Reply. -JW_

_Yes. -MH_

_Well I'm bloody well not going to beg over the phone. Get your lovely arse home, Mycroft. >;) -JW_

Your back and arse scream in agony as you force yourself to your feet, hiding your erection behind a stack of paper. The meeting room goes dead silent, every person in the room staring at you.

“Excuse me,” you say politely, as though you're not hiding an erection hard enough to cut diamonds. “There's an urgent matter I need to attend to. Carry on.”

You sweep out of the room, your PA gigglesnorting into one hand while she orders for the car with the other. You don't care. It's time to fuck arse and chew bubblegum, and you're all out of bubblegum.

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually my own prompt and an example of why I hardly ever bother prompting.


End file.
